


Just In Time

by amaruuk



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: Aziraphale commandeers the Tardis to rescue Crowley, who has been kidnapped by the Forces of Hell. The Tenth Doctor objects—at first—but he's also a little intrigued. Especially when he learns where they need to travel to save Crowley.The man Aziraphale inclined his head toward the console. "Well, yes. You see, I—I summoned her." He smiled wider, even more ingratiatingly. "She did offer to help if we ever needed—""'Summoned' her," the Doctor said dangerously. "Nobody 'summons' my ship."
Comments: 16
Kudos: 104





	Just In Time

"You can't just take me somewhere else!" the Doctor shouted. "I set your coordinates." He frowned at the viewscreen, data scrolling across it at speed. "Earth!" He ground his teeth. "Is that London?" He pounded the console with the mallet. "I really don't want to be in London in the Twenty-First Century right now!"

The mallet fell to the console as he dropped to his heels. The navigation log suspended beneath the panel was spewing out the details of their flight path. He ran a finger alongside the screen, noting the point when the Tardis departed his directive and seemingly set her own course.

It wasn't the first time the ship had failed to follow directions. But he didn't recall, right offhand, a time when _she_ had initiated the change. As far as he could tell, nothing had interfered with her systems; no outside agency, no internal malfunction. 

He was concentrating so hard on scanning the data that he was slow to notice the soft click of hard soles on the floor grates. Both hearts skipped a beat. Crouching a little lower, he could see a pair of tidy tan lace-up brogue boots climbing the steps to the flight deck. Beige woolen trousers fell with tailored perfection over the top of the shoes. Fascinated, he inched upward, and even paused when the owner of the brogues and trousers spoke. The voice was mellifluous, rich in timber, male, the accent RP. It said, "Hello, old friend."

But the owner of the voice wasn't speaking to him. That greeting, with that note of familiarity, had been directed toward his ship. The Doctor surged to his full height, ready to protest vigorously. 

The stranger, a pleasant-featured man with a shock of white hair, a long, Victorian-style jacket over a tan vest and sky-blue shirt, startled at his appearance. But, to the Doctor's consternation, only a little. Then, as if to make up for his initial lack of response, the man's eyes widened, and his brows rose high on his forehead. His expression became curiously rapt and he regarded the Doctor almost as if he recognized him. Indeed, as if he was delighted to see him. "Oh," he said at last, his smile tentative but unexpectedly charming. "Hello."

The intimacy of the man's touch on the Tardis's console, his lack of alarm, and now this pleasant greeting both confounded and enraged the Doctor. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Right," the man said quickly. "It's just that you— I didn't expect—" He smiled brightly and patted the console. "Champion choice," he said inscrutably, clearly addressing the Tardis. He clasped his hands together, as if to steady himself. "My name is Aziraphale. I need your ship's help." His voice was calm, his words smooth. The Doctor's ferocious demeanor did not appear to bother him at all. "And, I suppose, yours."

"Oh, really?" The Doctor ladled on the sarcasm. "Well, I'm fresh out of help. And out is where you should be." He gestured sharply toward the still open door. "And who exactly let you in?" He shifted his glare back to the center column. 

The man gave his hand a vague little wave toward the entrance. "The door was open. An invitation, obviously?" He took a deep breath and clutched his hands tighter. "I don't mean to upset you, but—well—I'm afraid _I'm_ the reason you're here."

The Doctor began to stalk around the console toward him. " _You_ brought me here?"

The man Aziraphale inclined his head toward the console. "Well, yes. You see, I—I summoned her." He smiled wider, even more ingratiatingly. "She did offer to help if we ever needed—"

"'Summoned' her," the Doctor said dangerously. "Nobody 'summons' my ship."

Despite his timid and even apprehensive demeanor, this man Aziraphale did not quail when the Doctor approached close enough to loom over him. In fact, he seemed to lose himself in a kind of entranced scrutiny of the Doctor's features, his gaze once more roving over every detail of his face, until their eyes locked together. The man's brows rose again, and he said wonderingly, "Your eyes—" 

Those eyes began to shoot sparks. "I said, nobody summons my ship!" he barked.

Aziraphale gave himself a shake. "Right. Well, the thing is, I did. Summon her, that is." He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the door. "The circle is on the floor of my bookshop, if you'd care to take a look. Well, there's not much to see as your ship landed right in the middle of it—" He produced an almost fey smile—he seemed to have an armory of smiles. "But, really, Doctor, we shouldn't waste time over such trivialities—"

"You know who I am?"

Aziraphale looked at him blankly. "Of course. We saved your life."

"Saved my life?" He frowned like a gargoyle. "I don't know you. And I would certainly remember you, if you saved my life. And who's 'we'?"

"Well, you would remember," Aziraphale agreed gingerly, "except that she thought it best if you—"

"She? Your friend?"

Aziraphale's smile was fading. "Your ship."

By this time the Doctor's innate curiosity started to come to the fore and his temper began to lose steam, despite his best efforts to stoke it. He accorded the other man the same close inspection that he had been given. There was something about him—his manner of dress, the way he held himself, the confidence beneath an anxious exterior: this was no casual passer-by who had stumbled into his ship. "You're saying you made me forget?" He had meant to convey menace, but the question came out sounding intrigued.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Yes. Actually, she thought it was the right thing to do. We—my friend and I—didn't agree, but she—"

"It doesn't work that way." The Doctor felt a sudden, sharp trepidation. "The Tardis wouldn't do that. And, besides, humans can't—" He broke off, as something that should already have occurred to him slotted into place. Narrowing his eyes, he examined the other man as if to dissect him. "But you're not, are you? Human, that is."

Aziraphale slowly, as though approaching a skittish creature, reached for the Doctor's wrists. He enclosed them within his fingers. "It will be easier and quicker if I show you," he said gently. He radiated tranquility, and kindness, and a profound sense of safety. The Doctor knew, without doubt, that he would come to no harm from this man.

Aziraphale raised the Doctor's hands to the sides of his head. He held them there until the Doctor adjusted his fingers, seeking the points that would allow him access to Aziraphale's mind. Aziraphale's eyes closed and his arms dropped slowly to his sides, as the Doctor began to probe.

He had touched the minds of many creatures in his years. This one was unlike any of them. It was quiet in that head, a soothing breakwater in a sea of mad humanity. There was humor, a piercingly sharp intellect, and so much compassion—along with brisk impatience for fools and intolerance of mean spiritedness. Binding everything together was a vast love: of life, of living, of simple things and great, of the earth and humanity.

The Doctor wanted to learn more of this creature and attempted to sink deeper into his essence, only to be sternly guided by Aziraphale to where he wanted him to go: his memory, and the specific moment of their meeting. Through his eyes, the Doctor saw the Tardis and himself, a handful of years and a regeneration ago. And there was another person, whom the Doctor couldn't see clearly, whose back was turned toward him. He had a glimpse of longish red hair that curled on the back of his long neck. Indeed, everything about him seemed long.

But as he was thrust deeper into the immediacy of the memory, all else fell away. It had been a moment—only a moment—but it had sufficed to leave him vulnerable to the hostile realities of deep space. As it played out, he realized that the memory was inside his own head again. And he remembered, in his core, that terrible, unbearable moment, the suffocating regret of what he had done. To Gallifrey. To the Daleks. Awash in self-pity and self-loathing, he had allowed an unthinking recklessness and a little bit of self-destructiveness—well, to be honest, more than a little—to separate him from his ship. The Tardis had failed to protect him, though she had tried. And time had simply run out. No time to prepare for a regeneration; no time to regenerate.

_He had died._

Back inside Aziraphale's memory, he saw the Tardis, overwhelmed by intolerable grief, shut herself down. That other, the one he couldn't see clearly, had somehow resuscitated him—briefly, he saw himself through Aziraphale's eyes, being hauled unceremoniously back into the Tardis, where he was laid out on the floor. At the same time, Aziraphale, in a form that the Doctor could not seem to quite comprehend, tended to the Tardis. And, she, too, had been saved. It was like trying to look through a microscope to view the moon. There was some detail, but forms were wrong, or incorrectly organized. And— _Were those wings?_

With a jolt, the Doctor came back to himself. His hands broke contact and lifted free from soft white curls, his fingertips tingling with the fading warmth of the other man's temples.

"What are you?" This was something new. Rubbing his fingers together, the Doctor barely controlled the urge to plunge back into the other man's mind, to search his thoughts and feelings, to wander through those amazing—and stunningly plentiful—memories, which were not his, and which he'd sensed more than actually seen.

Aziraphale glowed. "A celestial," he replied, with just a hint of modesty. "Humans call us angels."

"I died." It wasn't a question. The images he had seen left him in no doubt of that.

Aziraphale tsked sympathetically. "Yes. And your ship—she didn't want to carry on without you."

"There was someone else. Tall. I couldn't see him clearly. I don't remember—"

"That's my friend Crowley. He brought you back. He's good at that. I helped the Tardis."

The Doctor sorted through his newly restored memory. In the seconds before he had died, he had floated on the edge of consciousness, struck through with a deep sense of sick surprise, followed by intense resignation—only to awaken on the floor of the deck next to the console, with no recall of how he had gotten there or what had gone before. The Tardis had ignored his efforts to elicit answers and, assuming that she did not have them either, he had eventually put the incident behind him. Just one more strange experience amongst thousands of others.

"How on earth did you find me? I went to the absolute end of the universe, so no one—" He closed his mouth with a snap. He had not admitted even to himself why he had gone there, though it was clear enough to him now.

"So no one would find you," Aziraphale finished for him, so compassionately the Doctor felt his insides grip. "It was your ship," he explained. "She sent out some sort of distress signal. Crowley's intelligent phone—he loves all things gadgety—picked it up. He thought there was something unusual about it and he wanted to find out what sort of thing had sent it."

The Doctor said lightly, far more lightly than he felt, "And the two of you just popped over to see what was going on?"

"Well—yes." Aziraphale gave him that virtuous look that the Doctor was learning hid more than it revealed.

"Like that?" He gestured toward Aziraphale's outfit.

"A little differently," Aziraphale conceded.

"But I was as far away as—I mean, space is _huge_. How could you possibly get there in time?"

"We sometimes travel by different means." With a plaintive look, Aziraphale said, "Doctor—"

"Right." The Doctor gave himself a shake. "Your friend has been taken. I saw the note. In—" He waggled his fingers near Aziraphale's head. "In there."

"Yes."

"Hastur, Duke of Hell." He curled his lip. "Really?"

"He is a very powerful being," Aziraphale said.

"He's using your friend as bait, you know." The Doctor studied the celestial's face, looking for comprehension. With those cherubic cheeks, angelic smile, and placid gaze, he seemed impossibly naive.

But Aziraphale answered at once. "Yes."

"It's you he really wants, isn't it."

"Yes. He would prefer to have us both, of course. But, Crowley—"

"The chap who brought me back to life."

Aziraphale nodded. "Crowley killed Hastur's friend, Ligur. To save himself, it must be said. But—it was permanent." He appeared only a little dismayed. "Like many of Hell's minions, Ligur was a wretched creature."

The Doctor zeroed in on the important part of that statement. "Permanent. As opposed to?"

"Celestials—and their kind—wear earthly forms to blend in." One hand outlined his body, from head to toe, by way of demonstration. "These corporations, as we call them, can be killed, just as any human's body can be killed. However, when that happens to celestials—and their kind—while regrettable, we ourselves (that is, our essences) are not killed and we can assume a new corporation. But if we are—" He paused. "If we are destroyed, we are obliterated. Forever. Permanently dead. Nothing remaining. Anywhere."

"You're making my head hurt."

Aziraphale brushed this off with a small shrug. "Discorporating is not so different from your regenerations. Perhaps a little less harrowing, in fact. I'm sorry, but your memory of your deaths and rebirths—quite distressing." 

"I thought you were showing _me_ stuff, not looking," the Doctor said, one eyebrow arched sharply.

"Oh, I got all of that when we met the first time."

"Did you."

Aziraphale ignored his pique. "Anyway, that's why Hastur is being so unreasonable. His friend was destroyed, and he would undoubtedly like to make Crowley suffer my destruction as well. I trust that he will not kill him. Or, if he does, that he will not destroy him." His brow wrinkled and his mouth formed a thin line. "Hastur would far rather make him suffer. And making beings suffer is Hell's specialty."

The Doctor rolled his eyes and groaned, not so much in denial but in a kind of believing disbelief. "Hell's specialty," he repeated, giddily amused to be speaking such words out loud. Aziraphale gave him a severe look, and the Doctor sobered at once. "What if they catch you?"

"Worse, by far, is if they catch you. If you agree to go. They know nothing of Time Lords." Aziraphale's heart was in his eyes. "If you refuse, I will go alone. But the Tardis—the Tardis can take me in and out without Hell ever even knowing I've been there." He sucked in a deep breath. "But— But, you must understand the risk to you and your ship, should we fail."

The Doctor grinned, and there was darkness in it. "Well, as I'm the only Time Lord left, it might provide them a bit of entertainment—but what's the worse they could do?" He patted the console and grinned crookedly. "And she's in, or we wouldn't be here."

Aziraphale eyes glinted with sudden tears.

The Doctor realized he would do almost anything to remove that look from the celestial's face. "But—Details! Strategy! Logistics!" He scrubbed his hands together. "According to the myths, the legends, Hell—it's supposed to be really, really big, isn't it?" The Doctor let his arms stretch wide apart, as if he could convey the extent of Hell's magnitude. "How are we going to find him?" His eyes widened. "But—hold on. You chaps brought me back to life. Couldn't you just … miracle him out?"

Aziraphale sighed apologetically. "My abilities cannot extend that far." He added, a little worriedly, "And I am not sure that they will work there at all, should they be needed."

"Well, then. Back to the original question. Hell. Huge. Right?"

"Oh, it is! Enormous." Aziraphale winced. "It is a vast, sprawling maze of misery, horror, and quite disgusting creatures."

"And people? A load of sinners in that vast, sprawling maze?" The Doctor qualified, "Presuming those disgusting creatures you mentioned didn't refer also to the sinners?"

"Innumerable sinners. More than the disgusting creatures—but only by a little."

"Right." The Doctor took in a breath, blew it out hard. "Maybe I can get us into Hell. It's a big maybe. Bigger than that, though—how do we find your friend?"

Aziraphale met his doubt with a ready smile. He seemed a harmless, middle aged gentleman; to all appearances overfond of his meals, and clearly not devoted to a strict regimen of physical exertion. And yet, there was steel in him, in those sparkling eyes that the Doctor now saw could go flat and cold in a second. "Your ship will find him," he said, with a kind of ruthless intensity. "It's another reason I asked her to come."

"My ship? How can she—?"

"She has a detailed memory of every creature that has stepped through her doors."

"Does she?" He blinked. "Really?"

"She will most certainly remember—" He took a second to consider how to phrase his next words. "Well, you see, she took quite a fancy to Crowley."

"A fancy?" The Doctor's voice hit a higher register. "Why should my ship take a fancy to your friend?" His tone wasn't exactly indignant, but it bristled.

"He saved your life, Doctor. You are more important to her than anything."

He knew that this was true, but to hear it said aloud by a stranger who claimed to have helped save his life blindsided him. His relationship with the Tardis was mostly unspoken, and certainly little understood by those who had traveled with him. They thought he was fond of her as a thing. But he knew her as a friend, a companion, a co-conspirator—without her he was, quite literally, lost.

"Okay," he said with grudging concession. "But I have to tell you, Azi—Angel, that I have no data that will get us to Hell. And we can't hope to stumble in blindly. What do we do?"

"I will help navigate. I can communicate with her."

The Doctor scoured the celestial's face. Everything he saw there assured him, and he turned his thoughts elsewhere—to details, strategy, logistics. "I'll need—" His eyes briefly unfocused and he rubbed his hands together again. Then he ran back around the console and jumped off the upper deck. There were various equipment bins littering the subfloor, and he began to root through them. "Aha!" He scrabbled a little more, and emerged with a rectangle of something that looked like woven filaments, larger and longer than a man's spread hand; and a length of cable that mimicked strands of very large synapses—and which, upon closer inspection, had a curious squishy plasticity. "Over here." The Doctor hoisted himself back up to the command deck and waved Aziraphale nearer to his side of the console. At the same time, he deftly attached one end of the cable to the pad of filament and the other to a node on the panel.

By the time Aziraphale was in position, the Doctor was talking at speed to himself and working a few dials, switches, and keypads. He seemed belatedly to realize that the celestial was at his side. "Good," he mumbled, and grabbed his hand and placed it firmly onto the pad.

Aziraphale reacted as if stung. The Doctor gave him a speaking look and forced his hand back onto the pad. "You'll get used to it." And he returned to muttering to himself and making adjustments to the program, ignoring Aziraphale's shocked whisper, "But it's alive!" 

He finished typing with a flourish and stepped back. "Think about how we get there. Where it is. And if you understand it, how it relates to where we are now." The Doctor watched intently as the celestial closed his eyes and relaxed his hand. It seemed as if he went somewhere else, though his body did not move an inch. His expression, however, changed rapidly, like a pond beneath a turbulent sky, his lips twitching, brows gathering in a scowl, his whole face scrunched up as if in pain.

One of the displays started to light up with data. The Doctor fumbled for his glasses and bent forward, his nose almost touching the screen. A few seconds later, he jerked upright and moved to another input point. "Ugh," he groaned, "a subdimension. I hate subdimensions." He leaned nearer to that screen. "No, it's worse." His face twisted with dread. "A pocket subdimension."

In a strained voice, the celestial asked, "Is that a problem?"

"Problem?" The Doctor tucked his glasses back into his inside pocket. "No problem, at all." And then he threw up his hands and shouted, "It's just impossible!"

Aziraphale stared at him, tense and uncomfortable, his hand still clamped to the pad.

"All right. Technically not impossible-impossible. But if we can even get there, we can't stay for very long. A handful of minutes." He looked hard into Aziraphale's face. "Maybe."

Thanks shone in Aziraphale's eyes. It made him look a little younger. "I will help."

"I really hope you can." The Doctor turned his attention back to his panel, his long fingers keying instructions. Without looking up, he said, "Couple of important questions."

"Yes?"

"If we find him, are we likely to run into resistance?"

Aziraphale's answer was in his face. But he replied aloud anyway. "I don't know."

The next question was harder. "What if he's dead? Y'know, permanently?"

It seemed, however, that Aziraphale had been expecting it. He lifted his chin and spoke matter-of-factly, though his voice was hollow, "Then she won't be able to find him. And we will return here at once."

The Doctor accepted this with a brisk nod, and immediately turned his attention again to the viewscreen in front of him. He cleared his throat. "I've translated the information to tentative coordinates. She—and you—will have to do the rest."

Aziraphale patted the console with his free hand. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Hold on, Azi—Angel," the Doctor warned. "This could get bumpy." He pressed a series of buttons, worked the crank, and slammed home a two-handled lever. The time rotor began to heave upward amidst a slow laboring complaint of noise. The sound grew louder, deafening, and the rotor found a violent, syncopated pace: up a ways, suddenly down; down some more, then suddenly up. The ship shook like a dog coming out of water.

It seemed as if this would go on forever. The Doctor grew more worried with every passing second. The Tardis must surely rip apart from the forces she was trying to traverse. He saw sweat break out on Aziraphale's brow, his face contorted with concentration and effort. A grinding, shearing sound almost shredded the Doctor's thoughts. The Tardis came to a dizzying, swooping stop, so unexpectedly that both the Doctor and Aziraphale stumbled, though the celestial somehow kept his hand on the filament pad. A sharp report turned their attention to the doors—one side swung open.

A roar of sound rushed into the Tardis. Clanking, thudding, crashing sound. It was devastatingly loud, the kind of noise that reverberates in the chest and destroys conscious thought, far worse than that still being produced by the Tardis. Anyone exposed to that for any length of time would surely be driven mad.

Without hesitation, Aziraphale jerked his hand from the pad and ran down the steps. He practically flew across the entry area toward the doorway. In response, the ship lurched and trembled, apparently unable to hold steady on her own. He slowed himself with a flailing of arms, almost catching the Doctor, who was right on his heels, in the head. 

The Doctor caught one of those arms and brought the celestial to an abrupt halt before he could barrel out the door—and straight into the wall that stood less than eighteen inches away, over an open space.

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasped, apparently having seen his peril at the last instant. "Thank you."

The Doctor went to the threshold and surveyed their surroundings. The Tardis was suspended a little over three feet above the floor of a utilitarian space made up entirely of concrete, or something like it. He dropped to a knee and peered underneath the base of the ship. "Azira—Angel!" He pitched his voice as loud as he could, in order to be heard over the din. "There's someone here!"

Aziraphale was already crouched down beside him, craning to see what he saw. He let out an exclamation of dismay.

Crammed into the far corner of the tiny space—a space barely large enough to contain the entirety of the Tardis—a naked figure, bruised and bloodied, was slumped in the corner. "Crowley!" Aziraphale's cry was immediately chewed up by the discordant thunking and racketing of massive engines working somewhere nearby. Mixed with the equally terrible cacophony of the Tardis, the noise levels were beyond deafening.

The celestial was trying to squeeze between the base of the Tardis and the wall. The Doctor held him back. "It's too narrow," he yelled. "Stay here and help me get him inside." The Doctor sat inside the door just long enough to twist first one leg then the other out and down. He dropped down to the floor, bending over to duck-walk under the base of the ship. He didn't let himself worry about her maintaining her position, though she continued to bob about, barely keeping clear of the walls. If she crashed down, they were dead.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shouted again. The wounded man's head came up slowly. He blinked stupidly up at the Doctor. The Doctor flinched. The man's eyes—they were yellow and slitted like the eyes of a reptile. Why on earth would someone impose that kind of torture? But then, even more astonishing, he made out the details of Crowley's face. Through the blood and bruising and grime, he saw his own face.

He shot a searing look over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who was balanced in the door frame, anxiously looking on. The celestial correctly interpreted the Doctor's look; it was clear in his eyes. But he spoke, and though it was impossible to hear him, the Doctor understood the single word formed by his lips: _"Please."_

With shock zinging through his veins, the Doctor turned back to the other man. He would have to maneuver him to the other side of this small chamber, which afforded scarcely enough room for either of them to crawl. Loath to touch that damaged figure, he leaned in to loop an arm around his chest—and stopped as his eyes finally communicated the horror that his brain did not want to comprehend. The man's arms were broken. A glance downward told him that both legs were broken as well. Worse than broken: they were shattered.

He dared not move him like this. Anything he did would surely cause irreparable damage—if that wasn't the case already. He twisted back toward Aziraphale, making no effort to conceal his revulsion. Aziraphale frowned questioningly back at him. With a sketchy motion, the Doctor indicated the man's wounds.

Aziraphale's face hardened, darkened, almost to the point of rage. He lowered his head and stretched out a hand. For a fraction of an instant the Doctor thought Aziraphale was asking for assistance. Confused, he glanced from the celestial to the man who wore his face. Then the man stirred, clearly against his will, and began to scream.

The Doctor didn't know what to do. He didn't know what Aziraphale was doing. But before his eyes, Crowley's limbs began to straighten. He writhed in place, howling in agony, tears streaming down his cheeks. Appalled by the man’s suffering, the Doctor found himself peppering him with useless phrases like, “hold on,” “it’ll be okay,” “we’re getting you out of here.” The stuttering seconds seemed like hours. But at last, limbs restored, Crowley collapsed in on himself. To the Doctor’s immense surprise, the man tried to speak. He bent his head close to the man's mouth. "Aziraphale?" the other croaked.

“He’s here,” the Doctor assured him. 

The injured man snarled right into the Doctor's ear, "You! _Get him out of here."_

The Doctor recoiled, rubbing the side of his head. “The only way we’re doing that is by taking you with us.” The Doctor was pretty sure that the other man didn't hear him. So he gritted his teeth and did what he had begun to do before. He slipped his hand beneath the nearest arm, an arm that had looked like a large sausage casing filled with chunks of meat only a moment earlier, and urged him around so that he could reach him from behind. Crowley grunted. The Doctor guessed that screaming was beyond him now. So, heedless of the man's wounds, he wrapped his arm around his chest, and dragged him backward.

Above him, the Tardis was making a new and even more alarming noise. Sensing that time was not on their side, the Doctor tried to scrabble faster. But Crowley was slick with blood, and the Doctor was forced to keep repositioning his grip. As the sounds above him grew ever more ominous, they finally reached the opposite end of the cell, in the narrow space between the wall and the front of the Tardis.

"Stay with me," the Doctor said. The Tardis, with a gronking, groaning roar, shook with terrible violence. The Doctor closed his eyes, not really wanting to see that blue panel crush them into the wall. But somehow, she regained control once more, though he could see how very tenuous it was. He said sharply, into Crowley's ear. "We have to stand you up." Jerking the man's narrow frame tight against his own body, he staggered to his feet. Crowley was heavier than he looked, and the Doctor had to strain to haul him up beside him in the restricted space. It seemed, though, that Aziraphale's healing had also given Crowley some control over his limbs, and before they both could fall back to the unforgiving floor, the Doctor felt the other man's muscles taking some of the burden of his own weight. With that slight assistance, and gasping and sweating, the Doctor brought them both upright. With a last desperate effort, he pressed them both against the wall, facing the bottom of the Tardis's open door. "Think thin."

As they stood there, the ship shifted again, coming perilously closer, barely an inch separating the Doctor's nose from the side of a blue panel. But once again, with a crash louder than thunder, the ship steadied herself. It came at a cost, for there followed a horrible rupturing sound, like something shearing apart in slow motion. Crowley's head fell onto the Doctor's shoulder; this close, the Doctor could hear him breathing in labored whoops. "Hurry!" the Doctor shouted. The Tardis began a cautious descent, battling whatever was undermining her stabilization controls. Somehow she transferred the juddering forces to the vertical rather than the horizontal. One tiny encroachment of the horizontal would kill them. She had to move in downward jolts, and sometimes she was forced to jog upward again. The Doctor yelled encouragement as the ship, klaxons blaring, phone ringing, light wildly flashing, bounced closer and closer to the ground.

At last the base hovered a handful of inches above the floor. The Doctor, who only then discerned the incredible heat of their surroundings in contrast to the cold clamminess of Crowley's skin, stepped backward into the ship, reeling the other man in with him.

Aziraphale was waiting. He threw his support to Crowley's other side and, with the Doctor's help, brought him over the threshold. They lowered him to the floor just inside the door. Aziraphale shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around him, covering his nakedness. "Oh, Crowley," the celestial breathed. The name was spoken like a prayer, soft and fervent. He placed his palm against Crowley's chest and the other man inhaled suddenly, a long, desperate, gathering of breath. "I tried before," Aziraphale apologized. "But my powers stopped working out there." 

The Doctor slammed the door shut and shot off toward the console. "Azi— Angel, with me!" he snapped.

Aziraphale obeyed at once, though he darted worried looks back over his shoulder at the other man. Without prompting, he spread his hand flat on the filament pad, closed his eyes, and concentrated. The Doctor's fingers danced across the surface of the console, pounding the keyboard, activating pistons.

The Tardis screamed and rattled. A high-pitched wail arose from the time rotor. They began to spin in place, at first slowly, then with increasing speed. The Doctor and Aziraphale clung to the console, Aziraphale's brow riddled with furrows, moisture shining on his face, his jaw tight.

The Doctor spared the briefest glance for the injured man. He had rolled onto his side, and was clutching the celestial's jacket around him. His knees were drawn up to his chest, long legs tucked underneath. Even his body—long limbs, lanky torso—were a mirror of his own.

The klaxon rose another octave and added a few more decibels. The Doctor tightened his focus to their current predicament, not the very strange stranger in their midst. He dashed from one station to another, working the controls with inhuman speed and precision. 

The ship roller-coastered—a sort of crazed up, down, over, and under movement, all at once—and something in the rotor flared incandescently bright. "Don't! Don't!" the Doctor cried. The klaxon grew even louder and more piercing, unbearably, excruciatingly inescapable. Aziraphale took a step away from the console. "Azi—Angel, what are your doing?" he roared. But Aziraphale lifted both hands in front of his body, palms out, his features still clenched with that unnatural focus. His mouth moved and he appeared to mutter a few words. Simultaneously, the terrible clamor began to hiccup, falling from a wild, uncontrollable deluge of mad noise to a still painful but less overwhelming torrent of keening and baying. Over several terrifying seconds, the raging sound gradually decreased, until, finally, it resumed the normal caterwaul of the time rotor in action.

The Doctor jumped to the viewscreen. "We're clear," he said, laughing wildly. "In space, behind the moon. Over Pirquet Crater. We're clear!" He was nearly faint with relief. "Did you do that?"

"I only helped," the celestial said. Though he spoke calmly, he was visibly trembling. The rotor stilled. He assumed the air of someone listening intently. "She needs to repair some of her systems," he said. "Better here, where she won't be disturbed."

The Doctor grinned. "She doesn't talk to just anyone."

In the ensuing silence, Crowley's voice carried clearly across the wide space. "Aziraphale, you _idiot._ "

The Doctor's smile widened with delight. "There's gratitude for you." Tossing a quick glance Crowley's way, he walked up to Aziraphale, framed his face between his hands, and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. Aziraphale stiffened, his protest muffled by the Doctor's mouth. From the other side of the Tardis, Crowley growled, "Oi!" But the Doctor was already releasing the celestial. Slowly he stepped away. He whispered, "So that's what you were hiding."

Aziraphale's eyes burned with betrayal. "It wasn't my knowledge to share."

He should have felt the celestial's censure: There was more to it than just an angry expression and wounded eyes. It was almost a physical thing that flickered with heat at the edges of his mind. But Aziraphale's vexation was of no interest to him at that moment. Nothing else mattered. Because—

"They didn't die." He spoke with stunned disbelief. "I didn't kill them." In his mind, the images stolen from Aziraphale's memory stood clear before him. There, where there had been only shadow before, was his earlier self, the warrior. The one he had not only denied but had intentionally forgotten. But there was also another one—a future self. Somehow—brought together in one of those pesky paradoxes that he, and all of his previous selves, tried so hard to avoid—the three of them had joined forces to undo the damage—the unspeakable damage—that he had done. And they had changed the past. "I didn't kill them. Gallifrey stands." 

Aziraphale had regained his composure. He patted the Doctor's forearm indulgently. "They live." He swung away and padded down the tiers of grating. He sank down beside Crowley, speaking quietly.

Flustered with emotion, the Doctor gave himself a shake. He felt—he didn't know what he felt. Relief? Shock? Regret for the years of anger and self-hatred? Tears stung his eyes. To hide them, he occupied himself for a couple of minutes in checking over their current status, as well as the condition of the Tardis and her internal repairs. Once more in control, he strode jauntily down the steps to join his unlikely passengers, unable to stop the grin on his lips.

Crowley fixed him with those odd, reptilian eyes, watching without comment as the Doctor squatted in front of him, alongside the celestial. 

"So why do you look like me?" the Doctor asked.

Crowley raised a brow. The Doctor belatedly took in that the other man was now dressed in black clothing, shirt, jacket, and leather trousers—all black. On his feet were scaled boots that might once have belonged to a snake, also black. His face was clean of blood, and the bruising on his skin diminished. "Other way round, actually," Crowley drawled. His voice sounded normal, the hoarse rattle gone. The Doctor could hear his own voice, and it disturbed him. Crowley looked remarkably improved for a man who had seemed to be in the grip of death a very short time ago. But he remained on the floor, propped up by the wall behind him, apparently disinclined to attempt standing just yet.

"Is that right?" the Doctor said.

"I told you that your Tardis likes him," Aziraphale said mildly. "She was very grateful."

"And modeled _my_ regeneration on _him_?"

Aziraphale said blithely, "I can give you no other explanation."

"And you healed him, just now?" The Doctor gestured at Crowley's outfit. "And gave him these clothes?" He saw only then that Crowley's blood had vanished from his own clothing; he had been sticky with it moments ago. "And cleaned mine?" How could that have happened without his noticing?

"Well, no," Aziraphale said. He had reclaimed his jacket—also clean now—and was pulling it on. "Crowley has healing abilities of his own, when they aren't being overtaxed. And he does like to sort his own garments. But—" he touched a spot on the Doctor's sleeve, "—that was me." 

It was unusual for the Doctor to feel so out of his depth. "Sort his garments? Out of what?"

By way of answer, Crowley merely grinned at him, a very toothy smile. Finding himself a little unsettled—there was something about that smile, for that matter, something about Crowley, that made him uncomfortable. He was as different in manner and dress from Aziraphale as it was possible to be. Where Aziraphale radiated an innate goodness, Crowley exuded— The Doctor forged on, "Right. Okay. You can make your clothes out of nothing. Then why haven't you—?" The Doctor gestured obliquely toward the other man's face. "Why would they even do that to your eyes?"

"Oh." Aziraphale looked expectantly at Crowley, who said, shortly, "You haven't told him, have you?"

"Ah, no." The celestial clasped his hands together, a nervous habit the Doctor had come to recognize in his short acquaintance with him. "Well, you see," Aziraphale said sunnily, "his eyes are always like that." And then in a rather conspiratorial tone, he elaborated, "Crowley is a demon."

The Doctor studied the celestial's face for any sign of jest, some indication that he was being made the butt of a joke. But either he was exceptionally po-faced or he was speaking the truth. "A demon. _A demon._ We rescued a demon from Hell." Aziraphale nodded. The Doctor began to chuckle and then could not contain a snort of laughter. "Brilliant!" A thought occurred to him. "Did she know?" he asked. "The Tardis. When you first met? That he's a demon?"

"Not sure that it came up," Aziraphale replied thoughtfully. "I think her, shall we say, commemoration—" he gestured expansively at the Doctor, "—was to do with Crowley saving your life. You are the world to her, you know. Or perhaps I should say, all of time and space."

The Doctor could think of nothing to say in response to that. His throat tightened and he felt the backs of his eyes stinging. He was still overly emotional after Aziraphale's revelations; surely that was all. Filling his lungs with a steadying breath, he resumed his study of Crowley, staring at him with the same kind of scrutiny Aziraphale had given him not all that long ago. He considered the shape of his eyebrows, the curve and length of his nose, the uniqueness of his mouth, the cut of his cheekbones and jaw. All were as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. Perhaps a little older, a bit more weathered. The demon put up with the Doctor's rudeness with a darkly tolerant expression. On a whim, the Doctor asked, "Can I—?" He held up his hands and mimed encasing Crowley's head between his palms. "Just for a minute?"

Crowley said, "Why?"

"Well—" The Doctor searched for something reasonable, something persuasive. " _He_ let me."

The demon looked faintly disgusted. "You let this human rummage around in your head?"

His voice crisp, Aziraphale said, "We were pressed for time."

"Not a human," the Doctor interjected.

"Oh, that's right," Crowley scoffed. "You were in a hurry to steal his ship so you could sneak into Hell. _Hell_ , Aziraphale!"

"I wouldn't put it that way." Aziraphale said delicately.

"He didn't steal it," the Doctor said. Neither of them paid him a bit of mind.

Crowley's voice sharpened. "Did you even consider for a minute what Hell would do to you if—?"

"I had no choice, Crowley! I was sure they would kill you. I had no better idea."

"Obviously," Crowley spat back.

"Look—" the Doctor started, but Aziraphale's voice drowned him out. "Oh, do stop being tiresome," he said.

_"Tiresome!"_

"You know, never mind," the Doctor mumbled. "It's really not—"

"Just let the boy have a look." Aziraphale said, suddenly all persuasion and warmth. "It's not as if you keep anything interesting in there, anyway," he added, in a manner that might have been described as flirtatious. Crowley frowned back at him, but the Doctor also had a sense that he might be relenting. His friend had saved his life, after all.

The Doctor saw his opening and dived in. "And it's not as if you're going to let me remember any of this, anyway."

The angel and the demon both turned to stare at him. Aziraphale appeared upset; Crowley eyed him as if he might have some merit after all.

"You know we can't," Aziraphale said defensively. "You're a _Time Lord_. You can do things."

The Doctor said nothing.

Crowley laughed—cackled, really. But Aziraphale's encouragement, and perhaps the Doctor's candidness, seemed to have induced him to agree. "Make it quick." There was a glint of challenge in his eyes.

Cautious, despite himself, the Doctor shuffled a few inches nearer. "That was really Hell, all that concrete?"

"An infinitesimally small part of it, yes," Crowley confirmed in a bored tone.

"Ridiculous question, maybe: does that mean there's a Heaven, too?"

Aziraphale answered him. "There is." He added, gloomily, "And in some ways it is far worse."

"Really?" the Doctor asked.

"Can't disagree with that," Crowley murmured knowingly.

"Huh." The Doctor, his attention returned to Crowley, moved into a kneeling position, a marginally more comfortable stance than sitting on his heels. He began to let his fingers drift carefully into place around the demon's face.

Before his fingers met flesh, Crowley warned him, "No kissing."

His hands frozen a fraction of an inch above Crowley's skull, the Doctor said, "You have my word." Very, very carefully, remembering lines in a book that spoke of fire and brimstone—though, wait, that was the wrath of Heaven not Hell—he lowered his fingers into the thicket of red hair, his palms feather-light against Crowley's cheekbones, his thumbs brushing the bony ridge below his eyes.

He wasn't looking for anything in particular. But if Aziraphale was an angel—celestial—and Crowley was a demon, surely there should be something inherently different in the way their minds worked. He soon discovered that Crowley's mind was more rigidly defended than Aziraphale's. But, after a moment's connection, the Doctor concluded that a mind was a mind was a mind. The physical foundation and structure might differ, but _thoughts_ were communicated in much the same way. 

In Aziraphale's mind, he'd experienced an immense good will, layered with complexities of choice. Here—amidst the detritus of recent memories (angels and demons preparing for war; a child of Satan with immense power; and most importantly, the terrible dread of losing the one thing he cared for most in the world)—memories he had seen also in Aziraphale's mind, though from a very different perspective (he really needed to check in with Earth and see for himself)—he found a certain amount of unexpectedly innocuous chaos and a strong sense of purpose, both of which seemed to revolve around Aziraphale. He realized that he'd actually seen that same focus in Aziraphale without understanding that it was directed at Crowley.

A wash of exhaustion lapped at his consciousness and he withdrew at once, albeit reluctantly. Crowley was gazing up at him through hooded eyes. "That's all you get," he said in a voice like gravel, "and only because you got me out of there without getting him killed."

"Right." But there was more he wanted to ask, more he wanted to know. He might never have another chance. He glanced around, wondering where Aziraphale had gotten off to. And then he spotted him. While the Doctor had been wandering the honeycombs of Crowley's mind, Aziraphale had gone to the upper deck and was there now, apparently in lively conversation with the Tardis. To Crowley, he said, "D'you mind?" and indicated the wall next to him.

Crowley shrugged and reached into an inside pocket. He slipped out a pair of starkly stylish dark glasses and put them on. "It's your ship."

The Doctor shuffled to Crowley's side and sank down, pushing himself back against the bulkhead, scrupulously maintaining several inches between them. He sat quietly for a moment, giving his neighbor quick, sidelong looks. The demon raised a brow, a dark, pointed arch visible above the rim of the frames.

"Go on, then," Crowley said, with a sigh. "What d'you want to know?"

The Doctor angled himself so that he could face the demon without cricking his neck. "All right. First—" 

Crowley let his eyes roll shut, wordlessly expressing his exasperation.

"Back there. In Hell. What was all that about? Hastur—Duke Hastur—" He couldn't help giving the name an added flourish. "He's a demon, too, right?"

"Yes. You got that from him?" He jerked his chin toward Aziraphale.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. Hastur left a note; I saw it when Azi—Angel was explaining why he wanted my help. Basically, come and get me?"

"There is nothing subtle about Hastur," Crowley agreed. He raised his voice so that it would reach Aziraphale's ears. "Didn't you tell him anything?"

"We were busy rescuing you," Aziraphale answered tartly.

Crowley sighed again, a very put-upon sigh. He let his head roll slightly to one side, toward the Doctor. "If you're any good at all in reading other people's thoughts, you must've seen what happened—what nearly happened—recently."

"The End Time," the Doctor said ponderously. "Thought that was a myth."

"And aliens—including Time Lords—are science fiction."

"Well," the Doctor conceded. "But this Hastur had other reasons for kidnapping you. Aziraphale said you killed his friend."

"Yes."

After a moment's silence, the Doctor nudged, "So, basically, it means you've got all of Hell after you, and Aziraphale there has all of Heaven after him? Plus a personal grudge or two thrown in?"

"Actually, it means that we don't have any friends at all."

"So, they'll try again?" the Doctor pushed. "One of you. Or both of you. They'll try to harm you?"

From the upper deck, Aziraphale said, "Possibly." He was wringing his hands again.

"Probably," Crowley said, realistically.

"Standing offer, then." The Doctor cocked his head to one side and spread his hands, a gesture of magnanimity. "Give me a shout. If you need help."

Crowley turned his eyes toward Aziraphale and gave him a long, unreadable look. Aziraphale returned it with a shrug.

Not sure what had transpired, the Doctor said, "Second—"

Crowley let his head fall back against the bulkhead with a thump.

The Doctor ignored him. He was beginning to learn that Crowley's bark was likely worse than his bite. "Why did you save me? All those years ago?"

Crowley flicked another look at Aziraphale, the reflection off his lenses obscuring his expression. "Because he asked me to."

"He said it was your idea," the Doctor countered. He frowned. "You'd've left me to die?"

"You were already dead."

"Something you're obviously able to undo," the Doctor pointed out.

The Doctor's testiness didn't seem to impress the demon. He took his time before responding. "There's dead and there's too dead. You were verging on the latter. In fact, if you weren't a Time Lord, it probably wouldn't've worked at all."

"Still!"

Crowley sighed again. "You can't undead everyone. And people are harder. Ducks, the odd dove, bunnies—" he bit off the last word, and went on with sudden heat, "They're suicidal, bunnies, always hurling themselves under the wheels." He took a deep breath. The Doctor sensed his exhaustion. He should take pity on him, this creature who not so long ago had been a heap of shattered bones and bruised flesh. But then Crowley said, "You. You were a little suicidal, too."

Miffed, embarrassed, and uncomfortably ashamed at having been so easily (and accurately) found out, the Doctor's first instinct was to argue. After all, that had been his predecessor, not _him_ — But when he spoke, sounding chastened even to himself, he said, "It was a mistake. And then I ran out of time." Because he couldn't quite face the demon just then, he looked at Aziraphale instead, as the angel happily chatted away with his ship. "Why did he ask?"

"He has a soft heart," Crowley said gruffly. The Doctor wondered if he was aware how much he gave away when he spoke of the celestial. "And there was your ship. It would've been a crime to let her die."

Aziraphale glanced at them, caught them looking, and gave them both a small, enthusiastic wave. The Doctor could not help but smile back. "I owe him more than a rescue, then," he remarked softly.

"Remember that," Crowley said dryly, "when your thoughts are dark."

The Doctor started to glare at him, though his heart wasn't really in it. Crowley laughed under his breath. "I know that look. And it doesn't work on me." He tapped the Doctor's temple with the tip of a finger. "It goes both ways."

"Of course." The Doctor made a face. He was still smarting from the demon's—the creature he was modeled on!—shrewdness, or he might have taken a moment to think before speaking so imprudently. "So why don't you tell him?"

Crowley's eyes became almost visible behind the dark lenses, and they seemed somehow larger and more yellow. "That is none of your business."

"Right," the Doctor said, pushing himself to his feet. "You're right." He smoothed his jacket, studying the demon, who gazed up at him expressionlessly. He bent forward, his voice low. "But he feels the same, you know." He stretched out a hand and flicked the tip of Crowley's quiff. "I look good ginger." Before Crowley could retort, he strolled away, and then bounded up to the flight deck. "How's my girl?" he asked.

"In very fine fettle," Aziraphale said. He was brimming with joy. "She is a sturdy old creature. Ready to go home, I think."

He came alongside him, giving the ship's readouts a review. "That wouldn't have anything to do with you?"

"Well," Aziraphale paused. "Perhaps a little."

"Then, thank you," the Doctor said. "Again."

"It is you I must thank," Aziraphale said effusively, his eyes wide and so full of warmth and affection that a man, the Doctor thought, could drown in them.

He forced himself to focus. "Not needed. I can now add Hell—or a certain pocket subdimension—to my CV. Let's hope that we never have to go there again."

Aziraphale shot a pointed look at his friend. "We'll see to it that we don't." Crowley, who hadn't taken his eyes off of them, merely shook his head, slowly and deliberately. Aziraphale's face softened with affection, a gentle smile playing across his lips. He seemed to be made of smiles. Soft ones, secret ones, warm ones, sad ones. The Doctor had read about angelic beings, though the texts were as disparate as they were alike. Some angels were warlike; others gentle protectors. Aziraphale likely fit the latter category—though hadn't the Doctor glimpsed a flaming sword in the angel's memories? Even so, he didn't seem to have an ounce of smite in him.

"Well, then," the Doctor said, charged with new purpose, "are we ready to return to London?" Without waiting for a reply, he set to work on the instrument panel. The time rotor lifted with a clanking objection, the entire ship shuddered and shook, but quickly settled into its normal constant wheeze and tumble.

* * *

The ship landed, wobbled, and stabilized. The time rotor gave a last couple of groans, and stilled. The Doctor flicked on the external display and—yes—that was a bookshop, and the Tardis appeared to be in the middle of it. Aziraphale was already at Crowley's side, helping him—with some difficulty, for Crowley was trying to fend him off—to stand.

The Doctor locked down the controls and hopped down the tiers. Before Crowley could object, he grabbed his hands and pulled the demon to his feet. Fitting himself beneath a shoulder, he said heartily, "Let's go, handsome." He pretended not to hear Crowley's grunt of pain and hiss of protest. "I'll die of old age if I have to wait for you," he went on, and walked him through the already open door. "I have places to be." He trod on something and a quick glance informed him that it was the remains of a candle. A few lines of Aziraphale's summoning circle peeked out from the edge of the Tardis's base.

Aziraphale scrambled around them and hurried toward a small opening at the back of the store, not far from where the Tardis stood. "In here," he said. The Doctor followed, aware that Crowley was growing heavier with each step. The demon stumbled as they neared an old-fashioned sofa, but the Doctor held him until he could safely lower him onto the cushions. "You look like you could do with a nice cuppa," the Doctor said.

Aziraphale declared, "Whiskey!" The Doctor continued to study the demon, remembering that involuntary hiss, remembering, too, what he had seen in Crowley's head. He hadn't believed it, that image. But now, the eyes and the way he sprawled …. Well, maybe now he did.

"Here, Doctor." Aziraphale pushed a small drinks glass into his hand. He went to Crowley and gave him the other.

"Is he going to be all right?" the Doctor asked. Crowley had taken a gulp of amber fluid, moving only enough to lift the glass to his lips. He opened his eyes and stared at the Doctor. At some point, he had taken off his dark glasses. "He will," Crowley replied. 

The Doctor inclined his head. He set the glass on a nearby table. In this cluttered space, everything was nearby. "I'm just going to have a little look round, if that's all right?"

Aziraphale, who was hovering, answered, "Oh, yes, of course." His expression changed a little, became more serious. "You won't leave without saying goodbye."

'I won't," the Doctor replied, and meant it.

He spent a few quiet moments wandering through the bookcases, stopping here and there to pull out a volume and give it a cursory examination, before sliding it back into place. He thought of the angel, surrounded by the writings of mostly long-dead authors, his shop located on what appeared to be a very busy street. He thought of this small corner of London and suspected that it was extraordinarily crime-free. And he thought of the angel and the demon in the shop's back room, both severed from their own kind, but secure in their friendship. He thought of them with envy.

He returned to the open back room door, his steps purposely loud on the wood floor. He probably didn't need to worry about interrupting anything delicate, but just in case— He caught the tail end of Crowley saying, "...think you put this one back together wrong," and Aziraphale replying, "Don't be silly. They're like puzzle pieces. They only fit one way." They were inspecting Crowley's right arm, and their heads came up in unison as the Doctor leaned against the door frame.

"Let me?" the Doctor suggested, drawing the sonic screwdriver out of his inside pocket. Crowley narrowed his eyes with instant interest; Aziraphale frowned uncertainly. Taking that for permission, the Doctor stepped close enough to run the device, humming, down the length of Crowley's arm. He rolled it over and studied the results. "Bit of swelling—well, a lot of swelling. But that's all."

Aziraphale didn't need to say aloud, "See?"; it was in his pointed expression. But Crowley's attention was riveted to the Doctor's device. The Doctor tossed it into the air, caught it, and held it out. "Have a look, if you like."

Crowley didn't wait for a second offer. His still swollen arm was apparently forgotten as he examined the sonic screwdriver. He traced the outline of it with a long finger, held it up to his nose for a quick sniff, analyzed the various settings (which, unless the Doctor was mistaken, he seemed to understand), and then pointed it at his boot—and watched with unholy glee as the toe burst into flame. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale spread his hand in a slow arc, and the fire vanished.

"Sorry," Crowley said, though he didn't sound sorry at all.

"Keep it," the Doctor said. "I can make another."

"Oh, you shouldn't—" began Aziraphale, but the sight of Crowley's ardent expression stopped him.

The Doctor said, "It's nowhere near enough. Thank you. For what you did, way back when." He included Aziraphale in his gratitude. "Both of you."

Crowley nodded. "And you. Not so far back." He tucked the screwdriver into a pocket.

"Right!" The Doctor clapped his hands together. "Well, I'm not one to hang about. No maudlin good byes. All that." He looked from the angel to the demon. "Take care, the pair of you." He spun on his heel and headed for the Tardis. He was not surprised to hear Aziraphale behind him, "Before you go—"

The Doctor strode into the Tardis, his long legs mounting each of the tiered grates until he stood at the console. Fingers on the data pad, he said without heat, "You're here to make me forget. About you and Crowley. And Hell."

"Well, yes." Aziraphale stepped onto the top tier and walked slowly forward. "In part. It is dangerous information for you to have. Neither Heaven nor Hell would approve." He sighed, looking troubled. "But really, it's because of what you took from my mind."

"Gallifrey. The Daleks," the Doctor said.

"Yes. You are a Time Lord. Misuse—not that you would intentionally misuse it—of that knowledge could cause terrible knock-on effects in so many ways. For you. For your people." He shrugged and said, as if sharing a confidence, "In any case, I could have done that through the door."

The Doctor's hearts were beating hard. He didn't like being at a disadvantage. "Could you, indeed?"

"Of course. I came to thank you. Again." He patted the console affectionately. "And you, of course." He turned his head to meet the Doctor's dark gaze. "I think maybe she knew. That he was a demon. But a good person, for all of that. Well, he can be. She would never have given you his face and form otherwise."

The Doctor laughed shortly. "You don't need to convince me." He added quietly, "He loves you, too, you know."

Aziraphale dipped his head, a soft pink rising in his cheeks. "I do know." He allowed the moment to stretch before going on, "Most importantly, I followed you to give you this—" Upon the word, he spread his fingers an inch above the Doctor's chest. "Like the forgetting, I could have done it through the door. But I've always found it better to deliver it personally."

The Doctor gasped and clutched Aziraphale's hand. His eyes widened and his lips parted as a wave of pure serenity flowed through him. Parts of his body relaxed that he hadn't known were tensed. His hearts slowed. And anxious thoughts, constantly firing in the back of his brain, dissolved away. "What—?"

"Peace," Aziraphale said, and slipped his fingers out of the Doctor's grasp. "It won't last long. You are far too complex a creature for my power to affect you indefinitely." 

The Doctor closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of unadulterated calm. Drawing in a deep breath, he found Aziraphale watching him, waiting. The Doctor was filled with a mixture of wonderment and awe. It took him a moment to school his thoughts. "What happens if you need help again?" It was quiet in his head. It had been years since it had been this quiet. "I saw it in both of you. They won't quit."

Aziraphale brushed his fingers against the Tardis's panel with another loving stroke. "She will remember." He gestured broadly in the direction of the door. "Well, you want to be on your way. And I really must—" But his cheery voice petered out, and he stood a moment longer, as if searching for words that were not to be found. And then he seemed to gather himself and, with an unbearably gentle smile, said, "Good bye, Doctor." And he turned and walked briskly away, his footsteps ringing on the grates. 

The Doctor swallowed hard. He found his voice just as the celestial put his hand on the door. "And me? What if I need you?"

Aziraphale looked back at him. His eyes were bright. " _She_ will remember." 

He knew what was coming, and he knew that under ordinary circumstances, he would feel at least a little bit gutted. But he clung to the peace within him and said, "Good bye, Angel."

Aziraphale's smile faltered. "Mind how you go." He stepped through the opening, and the door closed behind him. 

For a long moment the Doctor continued to stare at the closed door, aware very vaguely that he was staring at it for a reason, though that reason would not come to mind. His eyes stung a little, too, but he could not imagine why. He felt—he felt _wonderful_. Better than he had in years. So, why—? But the time rotor began to rise and the Tardis's engines slowly started to wheeze. He blinked hard and the burning went away. "So, where were we going?" He studied the display with interest. "Ah, yes! I remember."

His hands automatically worked the controls, and he went from station to station, keying in instructions, applying tweaks where needed. But then he stopped. His hand went to his chest. He looked, puzzled, at the door. Breathing in through his nose, he thought he could detect the faintest whiff of cologne.

One of the data stations awoke with a squawk. The moment passed. He had things to do! Idly rubbing his chest with the tips of his fingers, the Doctor felt a surge of elation. "Let's see what's out there!"

End


End file.
